It Only Shows Up In Photographs
by Captain Evermind
Summary: A new series of vignettes, this time postwar, charting the lives and memories of the MASH characters through their photographs of the old days. Last 3 chapters now up!
1. Botson, Massachusetts

Hi all. Yep, another series of vignettes. Lol! I know, I know.. I still haven't finnished the last one... But I was stuck, so I wrote these instead. The title, and the inspiration, came from a song: _Monica_, by Fiesta Drive. It's mostly unrelated, but contains this line: "It only shows up in photographs, the saddness in her eyes." Ok, enough from me. Happy reading. :-)

It Only Shows Up In Photographs.

_Boston, Massachusetts._

Trapper John reached for the cinnamon, and smiled as his glance fell upon the photograph. This one was the oldest. It was obvious straight away. It had faded, the colours neither as bright nor as potent as they once were. The edges were rubbed smooth so that the corners curled and creased inwards. It was frameless, perched on the wooden shelf above the fish tank, surrounded by stacks of recipe books and spice racks, Becky's knucklebones, a broken pencil, a blue toy car.

He passed the cinnamon to Kathy, and watched with a little half-smile as she showed her brother how to stir it into the cake mixture. A little of the brown spice had fallen onto the photograph, and Trapper wiped it clean with a corner of his shirt. The faded picture bore the evidence of many such mishaps, but he was glad that he had left the picture framless. Frames were order and regularity, and four square corners, and somehow he knew quite clearly that none of them would have wanted that.

It was a photograph of them. The old Swamp Rats. In this photo, they looked young, with bright, laughing eyes. That's why he liked it. Back then, somehow, stupidly, even in the middle of a war zone, they had thought themselves invincible. They were all there, the whole gang of them, cocky and twisted, and somehow irresistible. Gin glasses in hand, they lounged there in front of the signpost. Spearchucker with his football and violently orange bucket hat; Fresh-faced Duke Spalding perched on an oil drum with his blissful baby smile and his inseparable guitar; Klinger in a strapless pink number and hideous gold pumps; Radar with his teddy bear, Henry in his stupid hat, the Painless Pole, Ugly John, Margie, Ginger. Dago Red, Ho Jon, the Cowboy...

And them. Hawkeye and Trapper, the old double-act. Hawaiian-shirted, laughing, arms slung carelessly about each other's shoulders. Blue eyes and brown, sparkling with evil, ebony locks and golden mingled together, Brilliant, malicious devils' grins.

In the photograph, they _were_ invincible. That's why he liked it. This was the only photograph, Trapper reflected, in which you could still see the laughter in their eyes.


	2. Bloomington, Illinois

_Bloomington, Illinois._

Loraine Blake stood before the fireplace, staring at the mantel. There was no fire in the grate on such a warm night, only a mess of grey ash. Shutting her eyes for a moment, Loraine drew a deep breath. It was like an altar, she thought, her fingers brushing the varnished fluting about the corners of the mantelpiece. No, not an altar. A shrine. A shrine to some distant god, his cold idol alone remaining, unremembered, unremarked. Almost without feeling them, her numb fingers grasped the photographs and lifted them down. This was her nightly ritual once the children were in bed, nightlights burning on the stairs to keep the ghosts away.

There were two photographs, both of the same man. Twin photos in twin dark wooden frames. Loraine knelt back on her heels, staring at them, almost without seeing. The first was an army photograph. A handsome, middle aged man in dress uniform, hair severely parted, stiffly creased beige shirt, dark commander's hat, Colonel's insignia pinned to the lapels of the jacket. For a long, long moment, Loraine stared at the photo, but there was no emotion, only blankness. This was not Henry. Just another soldier. Just another official-looking letter delivered in the post. Molly running into the kitchen with that unsteady five year old gait, waving the post in one chubby fist, full of pride because she'd got to it before Janey. The dog, a bouncing tumble of gold at her heels, barking so that his pink tongue curled. A bill, a letter from Henry's sister, a party invitation from Andrew's friend Michael. And a crisp white envelope containing a single typewritten page. A cheap print-off of an army photograph and the words 'died in service to the American Dream.' Capital letters, just like that.

It was only in the other picture that Henry looked real. She had taken it in their garden in a summer almost seven years ago. He wore ragged blue shorts and a floppy, colourless hat decorated with little jewel-bright fishing flies. His arms were big and hairy and sunbrowned, his feet bare, eyes cheekiest, palest blue. This was the real Henry. Not a commander, not a surgeon. God knows, not a soldier. Just an idiot of a man with a big grin and a stupid hat. Holding the photograph tight against her chest, the woman that he had once called Sweet Loraine broke down and wept.


	3. Fort Wayne, Indiana

_Fort Wayne, Indiana._

Frank leant over Josie to straighten the covers, brushed the colourless hair from her sleeping face and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Crossed the room to Annie's bed, slipped the book from her hand and placed it carefully on the bedside table. Paused in the doorway to read the embroidered text, green on green: "Show me thy ways, O Lord. Teach me thy paths." The only picture on his daughters' bedroom wall. Flicked the light off and shut the door silently behind him.

Across the landing a chink of light showed under Beth's door. Hesitated on the landing a moment, then knocked.

"Bethy?" Turned the door handle and went in. His eldest girl knelt by her bed. Saying her prayers like a good girl. Except that she wasn't. She was looking at something in her hands, glanced up as he entered, startled and slightly guilty.

Frank squatted in front of her, smiled to let her know that Daddy wasn't angry with her. Beth smiled hesitantly back. She was not a pretty child, none of his daughters were. Impossible that they should be, given their inheritance. Louise Bethany Burns had stringy, pale brown hair and a thin-lipped smile, but at least she knew him. Unlike the other girls, who had shied away in fear when this strange, unremembered father had re-entered their lives so unexpectedly. Just as his wife had. Strangely, that hurt him. Frank had never been a good father, nor a good husband. He had sired children because Louise had wanted it, because it was the expected thing, and what a man should do to be a good Christian American. Wondered why, when Bethy was the only person in the house who didn't still look at him as though he needed a straitjacket.

"What's that you've got Bethy?" That guilty look in her eyes again. Wordlessly handed him a crumpled photograph.

It was strange, seeing them there in the photograph together. Majors Burns-and-Houllihan, said just like that in one breath, usually accompanied by a sniggering aside or an insolent roll of the eyes from Trapper John. Frank and Margaret. Two officers in khaki green, brass polished, dog tags gleaming, smiles almost genuine. His arm was about her waist, her silver-blonde hair falling loose to her shoulders, a ragged bunch of pale flowers in one hand. Margaret. His girl. God... He had loved her. Why had it never been enough?

"Who is she?" Beth's tentative question.

"Major Houllihan. We served together... in Korea."

Beth looked at him, her eyes calculating, wondering. Bethy's eyes were blue. Why had he never noticed that before? Blue like Margaret's or Hawkeye's, blue like a Korean summer sky.

"She's beautiful."

"Yes, she is." Wondered where Margaret was now. Whether she was happy living the lie that was Mrs Donald Penobscott.

"I won't tell mother." Bethy's promise. Looked at him with those blue eyes. Damn it all. He didn't care. Even if no one else ever believed him, Frank's Bethy was beautiful too.


	4. Hannibal, Missouri

_Hannibal, Missouri._

Sherman Potter unfolded the letter and scanned the few lines of excited, childish scrawl. Then he lifted the photograph that had fallen out of the envelope into the light and drew back a little to see it clearly. The old man adjusted his glasses, and his face split into a slow, delighted grin.

"Hot damn!" he whispered, a dimple appearing in his leathery cheek.

It was a photograph of a man holding a baby. The baby was dressed all in white, with soft dark eyes and chubby forearms waving so that the little hands were blurred out of focus. The man who held him had a round face and thinning brown hair. He wore an ecstatic, slightly awed expression, and a woollen cap, his eyes brimming with pride behind round glasses.

The old doctor grinned again, lifting the letter for a second time.

"_Dear Colonel Potter,_

_I don't know if you'll believe it reading this, but this photo is me with baby Henry Eugene O'Reilly! He was born on the 17th of August, and his grandma took this photo when he was two weeks old. Patty and I are proud as anything, and Ma dotes on him something awful! I think that maybe he will look a little bit like Hawkeye when he is older. Hoping that you and Mrs Potter are well, and that you got the chestnut colt you wanted, and got the roof fixed before all the rain. Henry is sleeping now, and he sleeps with his thumb in his mouth just like Li Chin used to. I was wondering maybe if you and Mrs Potter would like to be his godparents, with BJ and Peg maybe? Ma sends her love._

_-Radar."_

"Well I'll be frog-tickled!" Doc Potter chuckled quietly to himself, feeling a strange surge of pride as he carefully rested the photograph against the edge of the bookcase between the pictures of his grandchildren.

"Hot damn," he said again, nodding slowly, and across the wrinkled old face spread a broad smile that would notleave himfor the rest of the day.


	5. Toledo, Ohio

_Toledo, Ohio._

Breakfast time in the Klinger household was rarely peaceful. A bewildering variety of people bustled in and out, with a haste closely resembling chaos. The kitchen was a large one, but faced with such a riot of hungry and vociferous family members one could be forgiven, Max thought, for assuming the place to be a tiny dressing room in a three ring circus. Max took another bite of toast, and turned the page of his newspaper with difficulty. The difficulty in question, aged three going on four, squirmed delightedly in his lap, and waved a spoonful of oatmeal, adding to the general décor of his father's shirt in a way not entirely approved by its owner.

Soon Li was having a spirited disagreement with one of Max's numerous sisters over exactly how to flip hotcakes. Max glanced up over his newspaper and grinned as Soon Li gave Yvonne a good-natured shove into the cupboard door. He was about to turn the page again when he paused suddenly, startled by the small column in the bottom corner of the page. There was a grainy photograph of a man's face, and a headline praising some minor achievement. It was not the column that had interested Max, it was the photograph. Indistinct grey newsprint, a round, unsmiling face with heavy lidded eyes, and a head almost entirely bald. The face bore a weary, condescending glance, altogether too casually aristocratic. Beneath the picture in short, fat type the caption read 'Maj. Charles Emerson Wenchester III, M.D. The newspaper had misspelt his name.

Klinger scanned the column briefly. From what he could gather, Charles had been awarded some inconsequential prize for services to medicine. Only the small paragraph near the end told anything of Charles himself. Klinger read it with interest.

_'Major Winchester is the Head of Abdominal Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital. His favourite pastimes are reading and playing the French Horn. He lives alone.'_

Charles' life, neatly summed up in black and white. Klinger's brow creased slightly, frowning at the newspaper. He took a slurp of coffee, and absently removed the oatmeal from his shirt-front with a corner of the table cloth. In the photograph, he thought, Charles looked sad.


	6. Mill Valley, California

_Mill Valley, California._

BJ Hunnicutt leantback in his desk chair and sighed. He sipped from his mug of coffee and with one hand massaged the headache which was beginning to pound in his temple. He lifted his tired gaze and looked out over the streets. From his office, he could just see the Golden Gate bridge, lit up like a Christmas tree with the little fairy-lights of cars wending homeward through the growing dusk. He shuffled the papers in front of him into an irregular sort of pile, pushed back his chair, and yawned widely. His eyes performed the familiar flick upwards to the framed photographs on the desk. Peg. Peg and Erin. Peg, BJ and Erin. Waggle the dog. The 4077th MASH.

It was this last photo which held his attention. A cluster of people grouped about a painted signpost. Smiling, but not really smiling at all. His eyes passed slowly from person to person, recalling their names. Charles, standing upright and aristocratic, and only slightly pompous. His hand on Margaret's shoulder as she sat with eyes sparkling, pale golden hair soft upon her shoulders. Colonel Potter stood beside Charles, with Klinger beside him, looking strangely characterless in green regulation fatigues. BJ himself, seated on the far right of the picture, with a ridiculous moustache and a floppy straw hat, Father Mulcahy standing behind him with a benevolent twinkle in his eyes.

And there, right in the centre of the photo, Hawkeye. A tall, slender figure of a man, clad in rumpled army green. A young face, and once-dark hair now almost entirely grey. His eyes were blue, but not the blue that BJ remembered. In BJ's mind, his eyes sparked with delighted mischief, blue and devilish, and laughing. Laughing, always laughing, even though nothing was funny. It is only in photographs, BJ thinks, that Hawkeye looks no more than any other man. Just an old, scruffy doctor whose hair used to be jet black, who used to play Lothario and Lucifer by equal turns, who was once the be all and end all of BJ's world. And it only shows up in photographs, the sadness in his eyes.


	7. Crabapple Cove, Maine

_Crabapple Cove, Maine._

Hawkeye tosses the magazine into a corner, stashes his empty glass away tidily in the sink. He pulls on an old red bathrobe with a torn sleeve and pushes open the door. Walks out onto the creaking, grey-boarded veranda and down the wide steps, feet scuffing black footprints in the shallow scattering of snow. Collects the mail from the letterbox, returns to the house, and tosses it on the fire without opening it. He doesn't look at photographs.


End file.
